


Dearest Laurens,

by InsaneHam



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Love Letters, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 21:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16250306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneHam/pseuds/InsaneHam
Summary: John Church Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton's fifth child, has resolved to write about his father's great exploits. One night, his troubled brother Philip interrupts him, and tells him about a nightmare he had.Only it might not be such a nightmare after all.





	Dearest Laurens,

**Author's Note:**

> The reason why Alexander Hamilton is glorified in this is his son is writing it, and I can't imagine John insulting his father in any way. Just keep in mind that this is a skewed version of what happened.
> 
> Also, this is not historically accurate.

It was quite late. Only a candle wick illuminated the room, warm light brightening even the darkest corners. John's quill slid smoothly across the parchment, blemishing the pure white paper with neat letters. 

He couldn't remember how long he had been sitting here, fixated on writing his father's biography, but he knew that it was to be a brilliant piece of work. What else could fit his father's name?

His mind was currently in the Battle of Monmouth. Muskets fired, cannons boomed. Men screamed as shots found their mark. John ducked a stray cannonball and snatched up a musket from a fallen soldier. The oppressive redcoats marched in a line staining the earth red with every step they took. The colonists weaved through the trees, employing the Indian tactics so carefully instilled into them. John aimed and fired. He missed by a long shot.

Suddenly, a section of the colonists broke off and began running, led by the infamous Charles Lee. John snarled. Was he daft? This would increase the moral of the redcoats, to see their enemies scattering like bugs, and weaken their own. No wonder he had been a General for only one field command. His father should have been the one to earn that promotion.

Above all the warfare sounds, his father's voice raged, cursing Charles for his incompetence. John lips were touched with a smirk. He knew what happened after. Lee lost his position, publicly humiliated, court martialed, and challenged to a duel by none other than...

A blank.

Who had challenged Charles Lee? At first he had thought it was his father, but in the bedtime stories, his father had always said that the honourable George Washington had forbidden him. Who then? Another infuriated aide? A frustrated soldier? John ran a hand through his mind, visualization scattering.

"Johnny, what are you writing?"

The words came out of nowhere, blindsiding him. John stabbed his quill into the parchment, hissing slightly. The quib broke, ink so spreading as fast as blood on fine fabric. John watched in horror as his hours of hard work were enveloped into the black hole. He turned angrily, ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind.

Little Philip stood there, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Despite himself, John could feel his anger draining away. He had always had a soft spot for Philip.

"What are you doing up so late?" John inquired. The old grandfather clock told him it was well past midnight. Philip whimpered and didn't reply, tears forming impossibly fast.

"Nightmare?" Since he was born, Philip always had terrible dreams. John blamed Alexander Jr, his brother. He was kind, but not quite right in the head, regaling Philip with nighttime stories of wars and blood. Luckily, he had avoided that fate, as the older Philip and Angelica had taken care of him, parents overworked and stressed. It was unfortunate what happened to them, it really was. John had admired his eldest siblings very much, treated them like he would his parents. Now he had to deal with his younger siblings, he respected them even more. Taking care of children was not an easy task.

Philip nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks, but he refused to make a sound. A prominent trait of the Hamilton family, too prideful to complain. It struck John how very like Philip was to his namesake at that moment. Stubborn, but still crying. He had seen older Philip do that after their father's confession. He winced. The only part of his father's legacy he didn't like to talk about.

"Want me to carry you up?"

Philip nodded.

"One moment."

John turned back to his ruined work and sighed. Beyond recovery. It wasn't his best piece anyways. He scrunched it up and threw it in the trash.

After capping the inkwell and organizing his materials, he scooped Philip into his arms. Philip immediately buried his face in John's chest. It was almost funny. Philip used to carry him when he was younger, and now he carried Philip. Junior, that is. He couldn't mix them up.

Philip was shaking in his arms as they ascended the stairs. What had gotten him so frightened? Sure, nightmares were bad, but he couldn't remember any that were that traumatizing.

"What was your dream about?" John asked, hitting the landing. His arms were already shaking. Their mother said he should go out more, but he was a scholar, not a soldier. Philip peeked his head out.

"I don't know. There was a lot of screaming. Reddies were running around."

Philip called the redcoats reddies, much to John's agitation. He knew Philip was only a child, but the elder had never referred to him that way. Plus, he was old enough to grow out of childish habits like that. However, John decided to cut him some slack, seeing how afraid he was.

"Hmm..." John hummed. He kicked open the door to Philip and James' room. His eyes flitted to the empty bed.

Great. James had gone out drinking again. No wonder Philip was awake. Suppressing a groan, he laid Philip down on his mattress. Philip clutched his arm, unwilling to let him go. After a few minutes of silence, John snapped, 

"What?"

Philip flinched at his sharp tone. How Philip and Angelica had tolerated his childish impulses, he'd never know.

"Can you stay till I sleep?" Philip begged. " I'm scared to be alone, and I don't want the reddies to come back."

All John really wanted was to go asleep and wish this terrible night over, but Philip's eyes were pleading. John nodded.

"How about you finish your story?" he suggested. Even if they scared him, Philip's stories were impressively detailed. Maybe he'd become a writer someday.

"Not a story," Philip corrected.

"A nightmare then," John's tone making it very clear he just wanted Philip to start. It was the fastest way to get him to sleep.

Philip seemed like he wanted to say something more, but he ducked his head and said,

"Well, there were a lot of reddies. There were partriots too. We were on a grassy hill, becoming more stained with blood with every second. Everyone was screaming, in pain or in fear. Horses bucked and stomped. I saw one black patriot crushed under a horses hooves. He died. His ribs were crushed with a spurt of blood. I wasn't scared."

John snorted. This was Hamilton pride talking all over again. Philip fixed his with the best disapproving glare a child could manage. Not wanting to get into a petty argument with Philip this late, he clamped his mouth shut and gestured for him to continue.

"I really wasn't scared," Philip repeated. "I was angry. I turned to the reddie who was riding the horse and pointed my musket at him. There was a noise, a flash of powder, and my shot went off. It struck him in the heart, and he fell off his horse."

"I grabbed on to the horses bridle, even though it kept bucking, and I leapt on it. It clearly didn't like me, trying to buck me off, but I hung on. The horse gave up, and I looked around the battlefield. I could see the patriots falling, one by one, and my heart twisted with..."

Philip paused, struggling with the word. John nearly laughed. Of all words, this was the one he had trouble with.

"Guilt?" he suggested. Philip nodded.

"Guilt. I was the one who led them here, the one who had gotten us into this situation. And rage. At the reddies who kept killing my friends. The only way to stop them was to show them that I was a bigger threat. I charged at the mass of reddies, who all pointed their guns at me."

Philip yawned, despite the fact that he had reached the climatic moment.

"Well, I didn't stop, and all the bullets missed. Except one. But it only grazed me. When they struggled to reload, I came upon them. Using my bayonet, I slashed and I slashed. They started dropping, but it was if there was no end to them. I kept getting hurt, but that only encouraged me to keep on going."

"But one guy shot my horse in the head, and it died. Before they could catch me, I dismounted and started to fight on the ground. And John? You wouldn't believe how great of a fighter I was."

That's right, he wouldn't. It sounded like a mix of Alexander's crazy stories with Philip's self centered heroism.

"Anyways, I kept going until there was only me, my friends, and a couple reddies. But I lost my bayonet in one of the soldiers, and before I could get one, a reddie pointed his musket at me."

"'Get your hands above your head,' he said. And do you know what I did? I laughed. I didn't follow his orders. I was so excited by all the killing. Johnny, does that make me a bad person?"

John snapped awake from his half sleeping state. The story was so long he had almost started to fall asleep he must remember not to make his father's biography like that. Philip was shaking, so he put a soothing hand on his head.

"No Philip, you were having a dream. Dreams don't count."

Rather, it was Alexander's fault for even telling him stories like this. He really needed to have a talk with him. Philip accepted this answer.

"I said, 'King George will lick my shoes before I surrender to you.' Then he got really mad. He started shouting. 'You demon! You killed my comrades!' He wasn't ready. I took advantage of that. I dived on him, grabbing the gun and twisting it out of his hands. He looked up in horror and begged for his life. 'Beg mercy from the devil.' Then I shot him. Right between the eyes. Johnny, he was so young. Not even as old as me."

"So a kid?" John asked. He looked down on Britain, sure, but even he couldn't picture it forcing soldiers into armed combat. Philip shook his head impatiently.

"No! I was older. A lot older. Stronger too. I was able to lift the gun and snipe another reddie, but before I was able to turn, there was a red hot pain in my back. I didnt know what was happening. I coughed. A warm liquid began running down my chin. My hand touched it, and when I looked at It, it was slick with blood. I understood and fell down. I was going to die."

Tears pricked his eyes again.

"I turned onto my front. The stars were beautiful. I realized I had never taken time to admire the stars, and I regretted it now. They were so beautiful. Then I thought of dad."

"Dad?" John asked, bewildered. What did he have to do with anything?

"I thought it was odd too," Philip agreed. "Then I felt regret. And sorrow so deep, it chilled my very bones. I started crying. Crying for lost opportunities. Crying for him. Only if... only if... I felt death creeping up on me, but I didn't want to go yet. I knew what he would say. 'Keep fighting.' So I struggled. But I knew I only had a couple more moments. I was really sorry. I couldn't stay with him till the end. I couldn't keep my promise. More tears. Would he weep for me? Of course he would. He would be heartbroken. Eliza would help him through it. 'Alexander,' I whispered. 'See you on the other side.'" "Then I started to sing."

"Sing?" John asked, even more confused.

"Yeah. 'I may not live to see our glory.'"

The tone sent chills up John's spine. Resigned, torn between life and death. And Philip still went on.

"But I will gladly join the fight."

"Philip," John whispered. Philip's eyelids began to droop.

"'And when our children tell our story... They'll tell the story of tonight. Tomorrow they'll be more of us...."

Philip drifted off. John was left alone, wiping away tears. Why? Wasn't this only a stupid dream? He stood suddenly and stormed out.

Alexander, get your butt over here!"


End file.
